homes (i)

claire will stumble down the stairs

and carry herself like molly bloom,

a clumsy waltz through every room.

i know so little.

i know so little.

i still miss your mother;

i swear she's almost here.

stumble through the door at four in the morning

like you knew she did the same

but you know so little.

oh, you know so little.

and she was sick,

when you were tried and tired,

vivid and alive,

with life.

we knew so little

we knew so little.

so i'll shave my face

and i'll stand up straight

like somebody else's posture

could keep me that way

so i'll shave my face

and i'll wash my hands

pretend that your grace

is half of what i am

so i'll shave my face

and i'll cut my hair

to sever resemblance,

to remember this severance

in my own way

but these dead cells are just that.

i am no maker,

i am no architect

of my own design,

but i made you a promise once:

that i wouldn't write like all those savants

who claim identity to a country they barely knew

heard stories from the other room

you were a home boarded up,

you are home.

and i knew so little